Behind Her Eyes(75)

My coffee sits untouched and cold beside me, and I’m not even puffing on my e-cig. Why are there no results at all for him? If David had bought him off, then for a little while at least he would have been on his feet. Surely he’d have got a laptop and the Internet? I thought everyone had Facebook? But then, it didn’t sound in the notebook as though he had a lot of friends or any real desire for them. Only Adele, and probably some junkies. Facebook might not be his thing.

Maybe he’s living in some squat somewhere and all his money is going on drugs? That doesn’t feel right. Junkies are devious – all addicts are, the condition makes them that way. If Rob needed money, he’d have found his way back into Adele’s life and got some – either from her or David. Maybe he has. Maybe David’s still paying him off occasionally and not telling Adele. But why would he bother? And that still leaves the big question – why hasn’t he sold the estate? Or rented it out? Why is it still sitting there empty when it could be earning money?

I stare at the screen, willing an answer to appear there, and then decide to try another tack. Rob’s sister, Ailsa. I type her name in and start to sort the wheat from the chaff. As with Rob, there are several people with her name across the country and globe, and then an electoral register site gives me a list of seven Ailsas, only one of whom lives in Edinburgh.

Bingo.

I can’t get a further address on that site without paying, which I’m prepared to do if it comes to it, unemployment be damned, but on the next search page I find a small news article about a Lothian Arts Festival. It mentions some local shops that were set up by grant initiatives and that have stalls at the festival. One is called Candlewick, and the owner is mentioned – Ailsa Hoyle. Candlewick has a website and a Facebook page. I’ve found her. At least I hope it’s her. I stare at the phone number that almost throbs its presence through the screen. I have to call it. But what will I say? How do I even go about starting this conversation without looking like a crazy person? I need to lie, I know that, but what lie to tell?

I look at the old notebook and it comes to me. Westlands. That’s how I’ll ask her. I use the landline to block the caller ID, but still I pace the room for a few minutes, sucking on my e-cig, before I brave pressing the dial button. Okay, I think eventually, my whole body tingling hot. Just do it. Call. She’s probably not even there.

She is there. My heart leaps to my mouth as the shop assistant calls her to the phone.

‘This is Ailsa, how can I help?’ Her accent is strong. I can imagine that voice, unleashed from the telephone middle-class politeness, screaming at Rob.

‘Hello,’ I say, deepening my own voice and smoothing it, just as I’d do when taking calls at the clinic. ‘I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I wondered if I could have a few moments of your time. I’m writing a paper on the effectiveness of the Westlands Clinic,’ I suddenly realise I have no idea where the clinic was or any of the doctors’ names, and that I’m woefully underprepared to carry this deception through if she starts to question me, ‘and I believe your brother was there for a time. Robert Dominic Hoyle? I’ve been trying to locate him, but he’s not appearing on any records anywhere. I wondered if perhaps you had a contact number for him, or could pass mine on.’

‘Westlands?’ she barks out a laugh. ‘Aye, I remember it. Complete waste of time. Robbie was back on the gear within days of getting out of there. Then he stole money from my purse and fucked off in the night. Sorry about the language.’ She pauses, perhaps lost in angry memories of her own. ‘But I cannae help you, I’m afraid. I never heard from him again. He’s probably dead or close to it in an alleyway somewhere.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ My heart is in my mouth.

‘Don’t be,’ she says. ‘It was a long time ago. And he was a wee shite, he really was. You can’t cure them all.’

I apologise for disturbing her day, and mutter a polite goodbye, but she’s already hung up. I throw away my cold coffee and make a new one, just for the sake of doing something as it all sinks in. It’s actually possible. What Adele suspects could well be true. I’m only just beginning to see that. For all my questions I was pretty certain, deep down, that Rob must be still alive. These things don’t happen in real life. Murder. Hidden bodies. Only on the news and in films and books. Not in my mundane, dull existence. I ignore the coffee and find a forgotten bottle of gin left over from Christmas at the back of the cupboard. I’ve got no tonic, but I add diet Coke to a generous measure and take a long swallow to calm down before grabbing some of Adam’s drawing paper and getting a pen. I need to think this through. I start with a list.

David – Wants the money or protecting himself against Adele? Both?

Rob – Vanished. Still on the estate somewhere? What happened in the torn-out pages? Evidence of a fight? Offer of money?

The notebook makes me remember one of Rob’s suspicions, and I add that.

Adele’s parents. Was it really an accident? Who benefited most – DAVID.

Adele’s parents. Of course – why haven’t I thought of that before? There must be stuff about that on the Internet. The fire would have been big news. I look at the clock – quarter to five. I have to go and pick Adam up, and that almost makes me scream with frustration, and then I hate myself. All the times I wanted him back from his holiday, and now I’m ditching him at daycare when I don’t have to, and resenting him getting in the way of my … of my what? Murder investigation? I nearly laugh out loud at the awful absurdity of admitting it to myself. Because that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to piece a murder together.